


flower weavers

by loserrobin



Series: Dwarves and Elves and Middle Earth [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, flower weaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserrobin/pseuds/loserrobin
Summary: Concept : When the company is resting in Lothlórien, the Hobbits comfort themselves in the land’s rich beauty. This is where the flower weaving comes in.Setting : Canon verse.Warning : Canon character death, brief talk of grief and hardships to come, mainly fluff.Word Count : 1000.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Dwarves and Elves and Middle Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583293
Comments: 10
Kudos: 149





	flower weavers

The grief of losing Gandalf was still fresh and bleeding, but Galadriel and Celeborn’s kind welcome and hospitality helped to soothe some of the ache. The hobbits formed a circle, hands into each other’s hair in a quiet clearing filled with flowers, fingers nimble in placing and knotting them into their hair.

“Strange,” Boromir’s speculative voice breaks the silence nearby. He is weary and homesick, longs for the company of his brother, the smiles of his people.

Aragon looks up from cleaning a boot, glancing over before returning to his task unfazed. “Many feel connected to the earth, calmed by it. Our days have not been easy.”

Legolas has offered his own hair, long and golden, sitting patiently as Pippin and Sam each take a sectioned half. They quietly discuss each positioned flower, arguing about replacements, oddly nit-picky with the way each fits. Legolas smiled, unperturbed, eyes closed as his hair is moved and combed through.

“Awful fussy about plants,” Gimli gruffs from where he sits on a rock, adjacent to the squabbling hobbits, watching curiously.

Legolas cracks open an eye, raising a brow as he regards the dwarf from the corner of his peripheral. “I would think Dwarves felt for nature as much as Elves.”

“Dwarves know dirt and rock. We know little of flowers.”

Daring to turn his head just enough, Legolas continues to speak. “Lothlórien is considered the most beautiful of elven lands. Where _mallorn_ trees grow taller than giants, and the soil sprouts with the secret to make _lembas_.”

“What’s that?” Pippin interrupts, peeking his head over Legolas’s shoulder.

“A special bread.”

“I want to try some,” says Sam, eyes bright. “The elvish food tastes good here.”

Legolas laughs and Gimli is drawn towards it, ambling closer. “And what are these little things?” His sturdy, calloused hands gently touch a star-shaped flower, yellow as the sun.

“ _Elanor_ ,” Sindarin rolling off the tongue,” the sun-star.”

“And this?” Gimli’s deep baritone is low, softer as he touches another flower colored white. The petals are smooth as silk under his fingertip, give way at the light press.

“ _Niphredil_ , the snowdrop flower.”

Gimli inspects the work, twisting the hair slowly before letting it slip through his fingers. He looks up to catch sharp eyes watching his inspection and clears his throat loudly, embarrassment flushing his face nearly as red as his hair.

“I can weave some into your beard, Master Gimli,” Sam suggests.

A shocked grunt, a step back. “My beard!”

Sam looks abashed, realizing his mistake. “I wouldn’t ruin it, I promise.”

“You dwarves and your pride,” Legolas muses, serene where he sits and observes. “Let me then, I won’t rip out your pretty beard.”

“An elf speaks of pride to me!”

“Let me,” Legolas repeats. “Trust in your company.”

Gimli touches his beard, at first nauseous at the thought. However, when he meets Legolas’s eyes again, he is quick to realize there is nothing nefarious about the suggestion, no trick to rip the hairs off his face. The suspicion whittles to nothing, and without a word he plops down infront of the elf.

Pippin and Sam are too occupied to spy the pleased smile Legolas exchanges for the compliance. He reaches forward, slow enough to allow Gimli a moment of doubt, to pull away, before long fingers tenderly part section, feeling the texture against his skin. It is a great, big bush of red, shiny like a ruby when the light catches it just so. For a moment, Legolas touches in his own indulgence, mimicking Gimli’s previous assessment of his own hair. At first Gimli bristles, the tense of his shoulders and raise of his chin could be considered a challenge against his judgement.

Legolas has no ill words to say, it seems.

“More red than any rose I’ve ever seen.”

He marvels at the flush rising against Gimli’s skin, what he can see passed the red flame of beard covering the dwarf’s face. He continues to move strands of hair carefully, beginning to weave in snowdrops, dotting like snowflakes. It takes a long moment for the sigh to come, Gimli reduced to a relaxed slump into his hands. By the time Legolas has moved on to adding the sun-stars, the hobbits have ventured away, tugging on the sleeves of Boromir to the man’s displeasure.

“You’ve grown quiet,” the elf muses.

“And you’ve got the smile of a cat with milk,” Gimli returns. “Proud of yourself.”

“It is not every day a dwarf allows me to touch their beard.”

“Don’t get used to it,” is grumbled. “I’ve done this to appease the poor hobbit lads.”

Gimli doesn’t realize he has closed his eyes until they are open again, catching sight of the way golden spools of hair frame Legolas’s face as he leaned forward, expression sharp and calculating. The rapt attention focused on him made his skin tingle, nerves jittery in a way he has not felt before.

“We might not get another chance like this,” a twist of hair, the addition of another sun-star. “We may as well enjoy these little, strange and new moments.”

Gimli takes in the elf’s appearance : tall and lithe, quick and quiet on his feet and swift with a bow, strong and resistant. He can picture fighting alongside him as they’ve done before in great battles, bow and axe side by side. They match well, in opposite ways, filling each other’s blindspots. Gimli even fathoms he may one day be comfortable to call him a friend, perhaps, through this long journey they have pledged themselves to.

“Aye,” he agrees and closes his eyes again, content to give into this moment of peace.

Once Legolas is done, he gives a gentle tug, hard enough to rouse his dozing companion. “We match now, equals in this land.”

It is said sweetly and Gimli touches the flowers with careful fingers, pleased at the feel of them, smooth contrasts to the scruff of his beard. He nods in gratitude while the hobbits cheer at the sight.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you've read, check out my other works and profile! You can find me on twitter or tumblr under the same @.


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